goodbye, farewell and amen
by Ash Light
Summary: Her head is tilted back and her eyes fill with stars instead of tears, which is just the way it’s always been.' Nine boys get their goodbyes the night before the Rumble.


**Title:** goodbye, farewell and amen

**Disclaimer:** I only own Action's family. Oh, and the cat.

**Notes:** Ehh...make of the pairings what you will.

-o-

_invincible_

_-_o_-_

He doesn't even realise she's there until the _clickety-clack_ of her heels sound out right in front of him, and then boy, he nearly jumps a mile out of his shoes. Jeez, but this is _Graziella_ we're talking about here – Graziella, who's a real gone chick but has to be the loudest thing on the whole West Side. And she snuck up on him. Boy, he must be loosing it.

"Hey, Daddy-O," his girl purrs, barely visible in the dim light of the basement. No-one in the entire building comes down here, after all – it's the sweetest place to store whatever he needs. And tonight, he's gonna need all of it.

"Hey Graz." He grins despite himself, because sure, she annoys the hell out of him, but it's _Graziella_. And she smells of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, but that's all _his_. He's not in love, Jesus no, but he's…he's in _like_. Tonight that's a pretty comfortable place to be. Reaching up an arm by reflex, he allows her to slip in, warm arms sliding round his body and coating his skin. "You shouldn'a come down here."

She pouts, but since when has he ever been able to tell Graziella what to do? It's going to be a good night tonight, he can just feel it, and so he chuckles, giving her a pinch some place inappropriate and allowing her to stay while he checks his switchblade and slots it into place.

After all tonight's the night, the night everything's going to change for all of them, and there's rockets shooting down his spine and fireflies dancing in his veins. Riff knows he's no Golden Boy ofAmerica; he doesn't live in a fancy mansion, or have girls swooning over him like a movie star, or even have parents that don't fight. But here, at the heart of the gang he feels like he's dancing on clouds , with light filling him up from inside. This, _this_ is where he wins. This is where he belongs, with the raw excitement bubbling through him and his head in a permanent whirl. Tonight, he's invincible.

Grinning, he glances down just in time to catch Graz looking at him, an uncharacteristically concerned look on her face. "Riff, be careful."

In a movie, this would be the point where the overpaid heart-throb dips her down into a kiss and promises that he loves her – sure, it's what Ice or Tony or one of them sensitive schmucks would do – but Riff's always danced to his own tune. Winking, he presses a kiss to the side of her hair, tasting the cheap scent of roses that she always combs through it. After tonight, things will be different, a million times better. "Baby," he teases brightly, "you know I always am."

-o-

'_cos I know you by heart_

-o-

Anita melts back into the shadows of the alley from another lingering kiss, brushing her nose against his. Despite her raw excitement, that wicked, teasing part of her that wants to soak in a hot bubble bath and simply wait there until he returns, she's not happy, not by a long shot. She knows this boy, this man, can cast her eye over his profile and recognise every scar, every mark, and know where it came from. She can trace her fingers over every contour of his body and know it by heart – and yet sometimes it feels as if she does not know his heart at all. Why would anyone be so foolish, so hasty to get their skull broken as 'Nardo seems to be?

As he catches her looking, he raises his eyebrows as if to say _I know what you are thinking_, and grins. It's true. He always seems to be able to look deep down inside her, read her mind, since before they were children.

"If you come back to me and you are not completely whole, I'll finish the job off myself," Anita warns – and, as she half-hoped, is rewarded with another kiss.

"Don't worry, I'll come back safe and sound," Bernardo muttered against her lips, and twists her hair through his fingertips, as if marvelling at the feel of it. "You'll be here waiting?"

It's the same routine, and she knows it off by heart. "Don't worry 'Nardo – I'll be waiting right here." She says it every night – because tonight has to be no different from any other night. Things will get sorted, they'll fight, and then he'll come home. To her.

Her head is tilted back and her eyes fill with stars instead of tears, which is just the way it's always been.

-o-

_brief encounter_

-o-

Juano's the baby of the group, everybody knows that. He's the kid, the one who cracks the jokes and makes the other Sharks laugh. Dependable, easy-going, but essentially _young_. He's ok with that too, because while the top guys like Pepe and Indio can dance in the limelight he's just fine with hanging back among the crowd, among the shadows – staying unnoticed but staying _safe_. It's only a few times that he can stick himself out there and pretend not to care what the others think. Sharks are supposed to be tough, careless and more importantly, _fearless_, but the truth is that he gets afraid real easy. So he sticks at the back, being likeable but generally unnoticeable Juano.

So it's more than a little surprising when, on her way home from the bridal shop, Rosalia sticks her head through the door and smiles at him. He knows her, of course – she lives on the floor above him and she's a Shark girl and…well, he always thought she was pretty. Real pretty, if he's honest. But she's with Indio, Bernardo's third-in-command and a real tough guy, so he does nothing about it. Just teases her about her naivety towards the Americans and pretends not to feel guilty when she turns away. Starting as she calls out a greeting, he nearly jumps off his chair, hastily hiding the length of bicycle chain he'd been experimentally coiling around his fist.

"Juano?" He nods, more eagerly than he should have done, and then cringes. "I just thought – well, I just thought I'd say good luck tonight." She blushes deep red, and he remembers what all the other girls giggle behind her back, that Rosalia can be so dim sometimes. He doesn't think that – to him she's pretty much perfect. "So good luck."

He doesn't really react, just sort of gapes for about ten seconds before she ducks out again apologetically; and then allows the broadest grin he can summon up to spread across his face and through him. It's a hot, glowing feeling, and he allows it to settle in his stomach and linger there for the rest of the evening.

If Indio catches him grinning, so what? He doesn't have to know.

-o-

_family guy_

-o-

At least he's home tonight – as if she doesn't know where he's going later. Everyone knows, and if she hasn't brought it up yet, it's because she's not dumb enough to. She's no kid, and she's learnt by now that her cousin's temper is not something to be provoked. Not on a night like this.

Perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, tucking into a large bowl of stew as if he was a wild animal ravaging a gazelle, as if this was the last meal of a condemned man (_and it well might be)_, it's hard to remember Action as a kid. Hard to picture him in too-big shirts with combed down hair, skipping rope and showing off his new shoes and playing marbles with his treasured shooters (_he used to be the champion of marbles when they were kids. she thinks she's still got the little glass beads tucked away)._ Not now that everything's changed. Now his eyes are darkened and filled to the brim with fury at anyone and everyone, now everything seems too small to contain him – and especially now his pockets are bulging with two pairs of brass knuckles; and everything's changed.

There's a shrill of laughter from the bedroom – his mom, arranging to meet another of her 'friends' from work. Jesus, not tonight, she prays, and inwardly cringes as the woman slips out, haggard under her thick coat of makeup. Like her son, everything's too small to contain her – this room, this apartment, this crummy life – and so she goes searching every night for something better. As she plants a kiss on the back of her son's head, refusing to focus on the knife on the counter, his ears turn red.

She likes to think maybe he cares. That maybe, beneath all the anger and destruction and rage, there's the kid who used to run to his mom every day after school and hug her knees until she nearly tripped.

When he stands up, joltingly (_every movement's a yank or a jerk; as if he's fighting to keep the fury bottled down __**all the time**_) she mimics him, following him to the front door. Watches silently from the safety of the hall as he dons his jacket. She hasn't said anything to him about this Rumble, God, of course she hasn't, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know what she thinks.

She says it now. "You shouldn't be doin' this."

Action doesn't even turn around. "Don't start, Didge; d'ya hear me?"

Of course she does; loud and clear. No-one can _not_ hear Action, because man, when her cousin wants to be heard, he's heard. She's heard it all before.

"It ain't important enough to get yourself killed."

He's holding himself in, turning around slowly and carefully so as not to let his rage spill over; and for that she's strangely grateful. "Family's important."

And so it is, but which family? She feels a stab of jealousy; and without thinking, steps forward, wrapping her arms solidly around him. If she could soak it all up, take in every drop of fury and despair out of him and pour it into herself, she would. "We're your family too."

It might just be her imagination, but for a single second she thinks she can feel his hands press against her back. Only for a second.

She tries to remember it later, when everything changes again.

-o-

_say hello, wave goodbye_

-o-

Baby John doesn't get a goodbye. It's not fair, he realises later as he slips out the door to meet A-Rab and the rest of the guys; after all, the rest of the Jets are probably getting long, lingering goodbyes that taste of trust and promises and _Ibelieveinyou._ The sort of goodbye that heroes get as they walk out the door to fight the villains, and that makes him sulk. Superman, he thinks, would get a goodbye.

Of course, later on it doesn't dwell in his head quite so much.

But the day after the Rumble, when their collective asses are hauled into the police station by Shranke, big and beefy and full to the brim with anger, he nearly bumps headfirst into that Puerto Rican girl. Tony's chick – or lady, as he guesses they should call her. She's already been questioned, and there are tears trickling down her cheeks. He ducks his head, but isn't quick enough – their eyes meet, and there's definitely a spark of recognition from the previous night. For a moment he thinks she's gonna give him the licking of his life…and then there's a very small, very weak but _there_ smile, and the faint whisper of _'hello'_ before she passes.

It's not much, but worth it – because, he figures, a hello is worth more than a goodbye any day of the week.

_in the shadows_

Just because he looks after Baby John and cracks wise at every situation he can get doesn't mean he isn't as tough as the next guy. Not as tough as Action, sure, because who's as tough as that headcase? but tough, all the same. It would be kinda nice if the Jets _remembered_ that once in a while. But no, he's always delegated to the role of headcase, joker-boy, which isn't too bad – but right now, lingered in the alleyway behind his apartment, with the setting sun casting a flood of blood-red light over everything, he wishes he was something else. Someone else. Someone who was used to these hot-blood emotions pounding through him, someone who knew how to handle them.

He's stewing about this in, mulling it over and damn well not sulking, because that's what _kids_ do, when Anybodys sticks her head over the wall. The freak's hair seems even redder and sharper than usual, her skin a pallid white in the darkness, just like a ghost; and for one moment he very nearly shrieks with terror.

Nearly.

"What're ya doin' around here?" He growls, his voice perhaps lacking that extra venom he usually summons up just for her. Anybodys is Anybodys, and she's a pain in the ass; but tonight's different. Tonight ever nerve in his body is strung so tight he feels like he's being pulled in six different directions at once, and there's electric current jitterbugging straight down the centre of his spine. He's excited and furious and shit-scared all at once; and only he knows it. Jets don't get scared. They certainly don't get scared of what they're capable of doing. They're supposed to embrace it – not be wary of it.

She shrugs. Her shoulders jut out, skinny as a skeleton, and not for the first time he wonders when she ate a decent meal. "Just hangin'." It's a lie, but one he can't be bothered to call her out on. Even Anybodys isn't dumb enough to press Riff to be hanging around to knife, not after her one final plea, but she'll be waiting in the shadows. She always is. "You alright, A-Rab?"

He skitters a little at that, because what the hell kind of question is that to ask anyone, particularly anyone straight before a rumble? The top boys wouldn't bother to ask, the kids wouldn't dare. But A-Rab inclines his head, the movement jerky and unnatural. "Fine." As she slips smoothly over the wall, he takes two steps back, beneath the shadow of the fire escape. Right now he just can't deal with a bickering match with Anybodys, because if he lets loose just one ounce of the spark and fizz that's burning inside of him, God knows how much he'll lose.

He can't help it. He's jerky and twitching and fizzed up, and she can't take an interest now because that's not how things _work_.

One, two, three steps, and suddenly Anybodys is bathed in shadow herself, crouched beneath the fire escape with him. He can only just catch the outline of her face; her dark red hair melting into the light of the setting sun. What the hell is she doing? He jerks back a little, hesitantly, suddenly more fearful of one scrawny little urchin than any amount of PRs. "Make sure you ain't too busted up when they get through with ya," she warns quietly; and all of a sudden it's kind of comforting to be insulted again. "'Cos when the Sharks don't finish you off, I will."

Her hand brushed against his back. He's only got about two seconds to feel the sensation of warmth, before she steps back and is gone.

(_the night after the rumble he realises she swiped his switchblade, but by then it doesn't matter. nothing matters anymore.)_

_-_o_-_

_creature comforts_

-o-

He's the goofball, the kook, the screw-up that everyone likes but no-one really truly wants to be. That's fine by him. It means that no-one pays too much attention to Snowboy, no-one follows his actions to closely. It means that while he gets praised for chucking a stinkbomb through a window, no-one will notice if he flinches when things get just a little too hot and antsy. And it means that no-one will notice tonight, when they're wrapping belts and chains around their fists and swearing that any PR stepping out of line will get what's coming to them, if his hands are shaking just a little too much. Snowboy isn't scared, but he's damn close, and as he lies spread-eagled on the couch, waiting for Mouthpiece to come by and praying that he doesn't, he feels his stomach clench with something harder than pain.

It's then, when he's cursing through his teeth and turning the air blue with his language, that he feels the cat – only a year old – pad across his belly and lie there, stretching alongside him until he reluctantly scratches behind its ear and down its back. And, as the half-starved bundle of fluff begins to purr, he feels the ache ebb away.

The day after the Rumble, he runs straight home, burying his face in its fur as he hugs the cat tightly. It doesn't fuss, just dabs a sandpaper-rough tongue against his ear, and he stays that way until all the tears are soaked into its fur.

-o-

_the great pretender_

-o-

Velma's not one for superstition, but she crosses her fingers behind her back as she walks back home, moonlight and starlight criss-crossing over every step they take. This is a path they've taken so many times, tracing the path from Doc's back to her apartment, and as clear as day, she can see the future spread out in front of her. He'll kiss her goodnight, wait until she's stepped inside, and then meet up with the boys, and then – well, and then. She doesn't know what happens next. Ice, the perfect gentleman, has offered her his jacket because she's 'cool as an icicle', and she honestly doesn't know whether the next time she sees him it'll be covered in blood or not.

They're the Golden Couple of the Jets, she knows that; everyone knows that. They've been dating the longest, they stick by each other even when Riff and Graziella are screaming like a couple of alley cats, and she's heard Ice get plenty of flak from the boys for being so gone on her. Ice and his ice-queen, she's heard the jibe once more. She supposes they are – Ice with his feelings bottled down hard, her with her impassive looks and cool glances. She doesn't let herself get affected…this, after all, is the responsibility that a Jet girl has. Never look concerned, never step out of line, never fuss, and never, ever cry.

Nevertheless, when he turns to kiss her goodnight, pausing at the door of her building, her fingers clench in his shirt almost possessively, her forehead pressing against his own. It's not fair – Jet girls don't show concern, Jet girls don't fret, but then no other Jet girl's boy is going out there with just his bare knuckles tonight. She's scared; and judging by the way his hands grasp her back tightly, he's not so certainly sure of himself either.

After what feels like an hour, just standing there, she pulls back, grinning rather sheepishly. It's not something she usually does – to be embarrassed is to admit a mistake, and Velma does not admit mistakes – but nevertheless she shrugs, leaning up almost shyly to brush her lips against his cheekbone. Suddenly she's all of twelve again, and this is their first date, with shy looks and a kiss to the cheek and _ohGod_ she doesn't want to let him go. "See you later, Daddy-O," she whispers, and doesn't include what they both know – _Don't go, I'll miss you; there had better be a later because I damn well love you._

_-_o_-_

_romeo + juliet_

-o-

He kisses her slowly, softly, and once again it feels as if there's only the two of them; not just in this tiny little bridal shop but in the whole world. His heart swells tightly, and there's fireworks dancing before his eyes. It's where he belongs – right here, right now, this is the only place it's meant to be.

"It will be alright," she murmured softly against his lips. "All will be well."

He holds these words in his heart desperately, all through the night; as if by believing he can make their story real.

-o-


End file.
